A Knight's Vengeance (13 page)

"You are."

He laughed.
A warning.
He flattened one hand on the bedding and leaned on his extended arm, bringing his broad torso nearer to hers.

She shivered, but refused to shrink back from him. She would not be threatened by his nearness. His mocking words had failed to defeat her. His intimidation would not either.

His tanned fingers splayed on the patched blankets. His hands were beautiful. Callused, weathered, yet nobly formed. She remembered his fingers closing around her mother's brooch, and resentment swirled within her like a gathering tempest.

Had he taken the ornament to sell it? The gold would fetch a good price, more than most merchants earned in a year. With its proceeds, he could hire an army to fight her father.

She must get the ornament back.

"The brooch you took from me," she began.

He shrugged.
"The trinket?"

"'Tis
not
a trinket."

His gaze bored into hers. "Why is it important to you?"

Elizabeth looked at her white-knuckled fingers. If he knew how she cherished the brooch, he might ensure she never got it back. By admitting how much it meant to her, she gave him another means to taunt and wound her.

Yet, if she did not speak out, how could she hope he would understand or return it?

Tamping down an inner cry for silence, she said, "It belonged to my mother."

"I see."

"She gave it to me before she died." Elizabeth looked up at him. "I ask that you return it now."

His mouth flattened. "I cannot."

"Why?"

"As I said before, I will not risk you using it to bribe a servant. You are an intelligent and resourceful woman. You would use any means to escape me."

"I give you my word."
                     

"Your
word?"
He laughed. "You think I am foolish enough to trust you?" His gaze clashed with hers, then slid down to her shoulder peeking above the blankets. Dangerous promise blazed in his eyes. "I will not risk losing you, before I have had revenge."

Wariness screamed through her. He stared as though he saw through her flimsy shield of sheets and blankets.

Someone had undressed her as she slept.

Had he?

Shock snatched the air from her lungs. Heat scorched across her skin.
The indignity.
The horror.
The thought of his hands upon her as she slumbered, oblivious—

Words, rough as stones, ground between her teeth. "Who removed my shift?"

De Lanceau grinned. "Who do you think?"

A chill raked down her spine, yet she must ask. "Did you?"

He shook his head, and his silky hair slid over his shoulders. "Elena has nursed the sick and aged for years and tended you well. She told me you did not stir once." His smile turned crooked. "If I had been so inclined to undress you, damsel, you would have awakened. And you would remember the

experience
."

"Why, you lewd, vile—"

The bed ropes creaked. He leaned toward her.
Closer.
Closer.
Blue flecks darkened his irises, yet that was not half as unsettling as the blackness of his pupils. Or the intoxicating, soapy tang that surrounded him.

He paused, his face a mere hand's span from hers. "Beware your insults, my dear lady." His words rubbed over her nerves like gritty sand. "Remember, your fate lies in my grasp."

Did he expect her to cower like a terrified girl? In her mind, Elizabeth condemned him to eternal torment in Purgatory. "I do not fear you, and do
not
call me your lady."

"Why not?
You are my prisoner. You are secured like a dove in a stone cage. You are indeed my chattel."

"Chattel

"As lord of Branton Keep, I command all who live within these walls, including you. My blood is as noble as yours, milady. I will speak to you with respect, and, in turn, you will address me with the honor I am due."

Stunned laughter bubbled up inside her. Honor? He was a thief, a rogue, and a traitor's son.
"Never."

"Tsk, tsk. You will not win my favor with that answer."

Her breath exploded from her lungs.
"Your
favor?
You arrogant, thick headed—"

He lunged. Before she could scoot sideways, he caught her chin. She shook her head, tried to jerk free, but he pulled her forward until their noses almost touched.

His glittering gaze bored into hers. Where his fingertips touched, her skin tingled.
Burned.

Her pulse thundered.

Awareness hummed. He was her avowed enemy, but also a man.
A bold, handsome, determined man.

Why had she taunted him?

His eyes lightened with the barest smile. "Now, I ask you again. Will you show me due courtesy?"

By sheer willpower, she said, "Nay."

"I can make you say 'my lord'."

His thumb traced her jawline. Oh, God, that one, gentle touch was enough. Her skin throbbed. Her body began to wilt like a parched flower, like a besotted maiden's in the chivalric tales. His touch devastated like a lover's kiss.

Nay, his kiss would shatter her.

He seemed to sense her thoughts, for he looked at her mouth. He stared as though her lips were a feast, and he was starved.

She fisted her hands into the bedding. "Release me."

"Why? You have not done as I bade." His thumb paused,
then
started to caress her neck with light strokes.

"Stop."

"Say 'my lord.'
Two simple words.
Then, I will cease this sweet torture."

"You cannot sway me." Squeezing her eyes shut, she prayed for fortitude. "You are knave, a rogue, a criminal. I will never show you the respect that—Ohhh!"

His chuckle rumbled like a cat's purr.
"Aye?"

A moan burned for release. Would she have to yield?

Three knocks sounded on the door before it creaked open.

Relief flooded through Elizabeth.

Shuffled footsteps echoed, then a gasp. "Lord de Lanceau?" Sister Margaret's voice quavered. "Shall I wait outside?
I. . .
I do not mean to intrude, but soon, I must return to the abbey to settle the accounts and—"

De Lanceau growled under his breath. "I will hear you say it, damsel." His hand dropped away. "Come, Sister."

He uncrossed his legs and rose from the bed.

The ropes shifted, settled, and Elizabeth exhaled. She had won a reprieve.
For now.
She slumped back against the pillows, cocooning herself in the bedding.

In quiet tones, he spoke with the nun. She appeared bewildered and a little frightened, but as he continued, gesturing with his hands, the worry left her eyes. She nodded.

Elizabeth scowled. Whatever he said, he had gilded the truth to suit his purpose.

De Lanceau smoothed the front of his jerkin. "Milady, Sister Margaret will finish tending your wounds now."

"'Tis a pity you must leave," Elizabeth said. Hope sparked within her like a greedy flame. If he quit the chamber, she could tell the nun of the kidnapping. Mayhap Sister Margaret would even relay a message to—

De Lanceau's laughter prowled into her thoughts. "I will wait here until she is done. I will not have you delaying her work, or telling delusional tales. A knock to the head can cause all manner of imaginings."

As Sister Margaret strolled to the bed, Elizabeth pursed her lips and stared at the mortared wall. He might have thwarted her for now, but she would not yield to defeat.

Not now.
                                             
.

Not ever.

*
    
*
    
*

Geoffrey escorted the nun out of the chamber, shut the door behind him, and guided her down to the great hall. He ordered a maidservant to fetch the wooden chest from his solar. Once she returned, he withdrew a small bag and pressed it into the nun's hands. "Thank you. I pray my donation is welcome."

Her fingers closed around the bag and the coins inside clinked. Her eyes widened.
"Milord, 'tis too much."

Geoffrey shook his head. "The sisters do good work in this land. I vow the abbey has need of the coin, as you have started feeding the children who beg in Branton's market."

A smile spread across the nun's face. She bowed her head, patted his arm, and then shuffled off toward the forebuilding.

He tucked the chest under one arm and watched her leave, an odd sensation warming his belly. He had indeed been generous, more so than he could afford. Yet, when he had sent a messenger to the abbey, seeking a healer, she had come right

away
and had not plied him with awkward questions.

Blowing a sigh, he glanced across the smoky hall to the leather bound ledger, quill and ink he had left earlier on the lords table. He skirted the dogs curled up near the hearth, stepped onto the dais, and dropped into his high-backed chair. He pushed the chest aside. The shy maidservant set a jug of ale before him. He nodded in thanks,
then
opened the ledger.

The crisp pages, marked with lines of black ink, whispered as he fingered through them. In the blended scents of cured parchment, ale, and smoke from the fire, he caught a memory of Elizabeth's fragrance. His brow creased into a scowl. He flattened his lips and glanced over the rows of numbers, accounting of the recent purchases of wine, spices, grain . . .